


At First Sight

by sunaddicted



Series: 007 Games Fics 2k20 [10]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Banter, First Meetings, Gen, M/M, POV James Bond, Pre-Slash, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:41:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24959323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunaddicted/pseuds/sunaddicted
Summary: James let out a breath that was neither a huff nor a sigh, rather a strange inbetweener that not even he knew what exactly it meant - maybe he was impatient but James would have thought that his job had trained impatience out of him, stamping it out with endless hours of surveillance and stalking.Maybe he had just been in London for far too long - longer than he had grown accustomed to: he needed to have a flight ticket in his pocket, the comforting weight of the plasticky paper reassuring him that there was a destination for him to turn to.
Relationships: James Bond & Q, James Bond/Q
Series: 007 Games Fics 2k20 [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1794529
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	At First Sight

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt 26 from the Anonymous Prompt Exchange (2019): Q and Bond's first meeting isn't at the National Gallery in front of the Turner, but on a bench by the duck pond in St James's Park. Discuss. :D 
> 
> Honestly, this probably was intended to be more Good Omens inspired than I made it into but I had wiggle room and I took it hahah

_At First Sight_

St. James's Park hardly was the strangest place where James had met up with colleagues and informants. He stretched subtly on the bench, hands thrust deep in the pockets of his suit jacket that was enough of a shield against the cool spring breeze, thanks to the sun shining through the menacingly grey clouds from time to time; it was a typical spring afternoon in London, one that James found almost comforting in its unpredictability: it could start raining at any moment and any sensible Londoner would have never left their home without a small umbrella tucked in the deep pockets of their coats or buried into their bags.

James wasn't a sensible Londoner and he didn't care for the darkening of the sky above him - a little rain never killed nobody, he would just duck and find cover like he had done many other times in his life: afterall, an umbrella was a luxury out in the field.

A weapon, at best.

He tilted his head up in an attempt at soaking up what little sunshine graced the earth, lukewarm against his skin - the breeze strangely almost felt warmer, the discordance enough to make him sit up a little straighter, icy blue eyes slit open to look at the glinting surface of the pond he was sitting by. Under that light, the water was molten like quicksilver, the ducks lazily swimming laps around it seemingly gliding atop the shiny surface of a liquid mirror; sometimes he wondered about what the feathery creatures thought about - if they ever got bored by their existence confined in repetitive circles around the pond. 

He knew that if he had been the one confined in the same way, James would have slowly grown insane, broken down by the endless repetition - no, he was a man of action: any kind of restraint, be it physical or symbolic, made his skin itch as if there were ants teeming underneath. He wouldn't have enrolled in the Royal Navy, nor would he have accepted to begin his service in MI6 if he had been the kind of man to thrive under the pressure of peace and tranquility: the routines of a civilian life didn't appeal to his nature, always in search for the next challenge - for the next adventure. 

James knew his thirst for adrenaline was abnormal, something usually sated by practicing an extreme sport at worst - he also knew that Queen and Country needed men just as damaged as he was, for the civilians to live their peaceful daily lives while staying ignorant to most of the horrors and atrocities that James regularly squared up to. Whatever made people frown in disgust or retreat in horror in front of the news, James had seen worse - he had _experienced_ worse and he had always come out of it... well, not unscathed, but alive.

He glanced down at his wrist, lazily finding the arms of the watch - a quarter to four and no one in sight, yet.

James let out a breath that was neither a huff nor a sigh, rather a strange inbetweener that not even he knew what exactly it meant - maybe he was impatient but James would have thought that his job had trained impatience out of him, stamping it out with endless hours of surveillance and stalking.

Maybe he had just been in London for far too long - longer than he had grown accustomed to: he needed to have a flight ticket in his pocket, the comforting weight of the plasticky paper reassuring him that there was a destination for him to turn to.

An escape. 

He could only imagine what kind of field day MI6' resident shrinks in Psych would have had with his most intimate thoughts. James chased the thought away with a little shrug, concealing even to himself the shudder of disgust and horror that was running down his spine at the idea of anyone splitting his head open, sifting through his brain to morbidly sort amidst his synapses; of course, James knew that they _knew_ \- it was their job to understand the truth beneath his masterful lies, but there was something immensely comforting in the idea that unless he spilled his guts to them, they would never really know him for sure.

The depths of his mind - of his _heart_ \- were for himself alone. 

And Vesper, but her body lay at the bottom of a Venetian canale, embalmed by the murky water polluted by the constant coming and going of the boats, shrouded by the red sundress she had been wearing that fatal morning. He still had nightmares about the expensive and lightweight fabric blooming around her in the water - blood flowering around her as she drowned. 

James looked away from the pond, irritated at himself for something as mundane as a stagnant body of water causing such a visceral reaction in the depths of his soul, tugging at strings that he didn't even know were pulled taut amidst his ribs.

He blamed the red still filling his eyes when the sudden appearance of a man - boy? teen? - startled him; whoever the guy was, James knew that he was sitting far too close to him on the damp bench. Not that it was intentional on the other's part: the bench was small enough that it would inevitably get cramped with more than one person sitting on it.

Still, he couldn't help being bothered by the proximity and, as subtly as he could, James pulled in on himself.

"It's so relaxing, isn't it?"

Of bloody course the guy was a chatter. 

"It really fills me with peace, the repetitive circling of the ducks - going round and around without a destination. So aimless"

James only let out a grunt and almost absentmindedly started to stand up, muscles responding to the barely there command with the kind of urgency that came from a line of work that needed his reflexes to be sharp "Excuse me, I'm waiting for someone" always polite, he really couldn't shake that inherently British attitude off. 

"That would be me, Double-Oh Seven"

Since when was MI6 hiring actual kids? Was the other even out of uni? James studied the ill-fitting suit and parka combo he had going on - paired with the smudged glasses and the waves of his hair that looked like curls tamed with brute force, he really looked young.

Still, he sat back down.

"I'm your new Quartermaster"

"You must be joking" the words left his mouth without a thought, blatantly insulting in their incredulity.

"Why, because I'm not wearing a lab coat?"

The cheeky little thing - that most definitely wasn't it, he had seen the old Major plenty of times without a lab coat: it wasn't the clothes that made the Quartermaster "Because you still have spots" admittedly, age didn't make the Quartermaster either but experience did and he doubted that someone as young as the other seemed to be had gathered enough to take over a whole department - and one of the most important at that.

"My complexion is hardly relevant"

"Your competence is"

"Age is no guarantee of efficiency"

"And youth is no guarantee of innovation" the banter had James almost feeling breathless and... annoyed? No, that wasn't it but he did feel on the edge, hilariously stretched thin. He watched curiously as the young man gave a little wiggle, sitting up straighter without making his annoyance shine through too preponderantly - smart but he wasn't surprised by that: he had to be clever to snatch the position of Quartermaster so ridiculously young.

"Well, I'll hazard I can do more damage on my laptop, sitting in my pyjamas before my first cup of Earl Grey than you can do in a year in the field"

The words surprisingly were devoid of any sniping, the other's voice as calm and limpid as the pond in front of them whenever the ducks weren't swimming in it, its surface undisturbed by their paddling; the other was stating a mere fact, one that he didn't find particularly extraordinary either if the nonchalant attitude with which he delivered it wasn't a construct.

James couldn't help being charmed "Oh, so why do you need me?" He inquired, genuinely curious to know what the other would say, what he thought he would need Double-Oh agents for since he could be as lethal with a computer as James was with a gun in his hands - allegedly: seeing is believing and James wouldn't start waxing poetics about any talents the other might have had until they saved his ass while he was out in the field. 

"Every now and then a trigger needs to be pulled"

"Or not pulled. It's hard to tell in your pyjamas" James immediately retorted, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips - it was imperceptible, really: anyone who didn't know him well would have mistaken it for a spasm, a brief loss of muscular control. He turned to the side a little more, hand suspended between them "Q" and acknowledgment.

Provisory acceptance.

"Double-Oh Seven"

Q's hand was far less smoother than James had thought it would be, his own calluses rubbing against the other's as he felt something inside himself dislodge, like a magnet disturbed in its static slumber by a pulling force.

James was more than a little familiar with attraction at first sight - he just hoped he wasn't falling headfirst into the shallows, the sharp rocks of the pondbed waiting to devour him.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Yep, dialogue is lifted straight from Skyfall - don't stone me.


End file.
